Unthinkable
by PhoenixDragonDreamer
Summary: Sleep was a thing of the past.
1. Chapter 1

**Rating:** Hard R  
**Characters/Pairing:** Eleventh Doctor, Amy Pond, Rory Williams, TARDIS (Amy/Rory; Amy/Rory/Eleven; Rory/Eleven)  
**Genre:** Het, Slash, Sci-Fi, Horror, Dark Fantasy, AU  
**Word count:** 13,642 (WIP)  
**Warnings/Spoilers:**** No Spoilers, Alternate Universe, Dark!fic, Death!fic, Angst, Language, Suicidal Ideations/Attempts, Canon Character Death, Explicit Sexual Situations, Dub-Con, OT3, Violence, Blood, Gore, PTSD, Mental Breakdown, Hallucinations  
****A/N:** This fiction started off from an idea/prompt from my dearest _**themuslimbarbie**_ who dared to ask '_What-If?_', then tossed it my way to see if I could do anything with it. It took awhile, but when the idea finally slotted into place, this Verse was the result. I don't really think this was what she had in mind when she passed the idea on, but I certainly hope she enjoys it (this one is for you, A, honey!)  
I will say, I never really intended this Verse to even _happen_, but Rory and the Doctor insisted, so here we are. This series is still a WIP and for once, I have only the vaguest ideas of how it goes - I am letting the characters walk me through and tell the story. That was how this series started, so I find it fitting to let them tell me the 'Story That Never Was'.  
The first five 'sections' are unbeta'd, so please forgive any errors, fails and omissions. Also, keep in mind there will be Explicit Content in some of these chapters - there will be warnings/notes posted for each chapter, but the main bulk of warnings can be found here. The rest of this fic has been subjected to the tender beta mercies of my Good Girl _**lonewytch**_ (thank you, dearheart!) before being submitted to the tender mercies of You, my lovely Readers. I certainly hope you love this tale as much as I do.  
**Summary:** _There was once Three (the Doctor, Amy and Rory) but after a lovely picnic and exploration of a peaceful planetoid in the middle of a forgotten sector of space goes terribly wrong, there are only Two. Staggered with sudden, inexplicable loss, Rory and the Doctor try to find a way to move on, only to be hindered by their own grief, horror and misunderstandings. Obsessed with Amy's demise, the Doctor can't let go of the past (that should never have been) and he searches for a way to set things right, even as Rory struggles to live with his loss and find a new life for them in the wake of his wife's death. But it is hard to hold on to someone who sees himself as a means to an end. Death, obsession, love and the past drive them forward, even as they push for different fates. This is The Tale That Never Was..._  
**Disclaimer:**** Not mine, nope! All the wishing and pleading with the PTB have not changed this. The wonderful Doctor and His Companions still belong to BBC, BBC Worldwide (and for now) the epic S. Moffat. So please no sue - just having fun here!**

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**The Unthinkable Series**

**'Unthinkable: If I Could Trade (How I Would)'**

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**A/N:** Written for _**who**___**contest's**_ Prompt: You Can't Win Them All.

**A/N2:** First Place (Winner) at Who Contest

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**~Prologue~**

Sleep was a thing of the past.

It had been two days, two days since they had lost her and all Rory could do was mourn. He walked in a haze, everything snapshots of before and after. Everything to bright, too loud, too surreal.

And then there was the Doctor.

He had often thought it would be him clinging to the lifeless body of his wife, bathed in her blood while the Doctor cajoled and pleaded and fought to get him to the safety of the TARDIS. Instead, it was just the opposite. If the Doctor had been a fraction of a second slower, it would have been Amy he would be dragging away.

But he couldn't resent the Doctor for that. He couldn't. Not when pain and horror was etched into every line of his body, shining bleak and raw from his eyes.

His begging was the hardest to hear. It was somehow worse than the choked sounds Amy made as her life bled away slowly from the wound in the back of her head.

All he could think was how grateful he was he could see her face as shining and beautiful as it had always been.

And how grateful he was that he hadn't lost them both.

But he was going to. He could see it.

Death wrapped itself around the Doctor's soul and there was no way for Rory to rip it free. He could see it settle over him, make itself a part of him; their combined pain soaking into the Time-Lord's mind and making itself at home - burying deep, eating through like an infection.

"Get up!" The Doctor screamed, his hands slicking maroon madness through her hair, her eyes seeking them out - relief and apology and forgiveness swimming in their depths and it hurt too much to look at her and know -

"Run! Come on, Amelia - don't do this! _Get up_!"

His howls of anger and grief could be heard over the thudding screech of engines overhead. Chaos and destruction raining down around them as the airships came in for another assault - the moans and cries of the dying and half-alive like white noise in Rory's skull; his head, his heart too numb to process anything beyond '_Leave. Leave now. We'll all die._'

He didn't want to die. He didn't want Amy to die (though she was already dead.) He didn't want to the Doctor to die. His last lifeline, his last hope - the last good part of them left. The smell of burnt flesh and scorched rock imprinted itself in his memory as he grabbed the Time-Lord by the arms, physically hauling him away from the lifeless body of his wife -

_Oh god, Amy! Oh god! I'm so...oh fuck - I'll save him, I'll save him, I promise_ -

The horror around them narrowing to the struggling body in his arms, the familiar smell of stardust and Doctor grounding him, calming him enough to undertake the monumental task of getting the Time-Lord back to safety. The Doctor's shrieks had become a series of hoarse barks, his eyes on Amy until they could see her no more.

He knew he should have been the one to fall apart. They both should have been blasted to bits on the battlefield - the battlefield the Doctor had said (before falling eerily silent), that should never have been. Timelines had been reset...again. And the collateral damage was Amy. And if he didn't watch him, the Doctor as well.

He found the list.

Wandering the corridors, trying to make sense of an empty bed, he came across a list in the hallway - the edges tattered and crumpled as if it had been balled in someone's fist; ink smeared and too, too fresh. A series of names. None of them he knew - except for one. Scrawled over and over and over again, the pen that wrote them getting bolder and bolder as the names were stroked out in the Doctor's prim copperplate: _Adric, Jack, Amy, Amy, Amy, AMELIA_ -

He knew then, he was going to lose him.

He couldn't lose him, too.

The Doctor had been so quiet, when they had finally reached the TARDIS. He stayed quiet and still as Rory examined him, his face turned away, refusing to look him in the eye. He seemed dull - gray around the eyes and mouth and so, so faded and old. Rory hated that look. He hated that he was calm, that he couldn't quite get that Amy was dead one mile away, her gorgeous red hair a tangled mess of maroon, her eyes open, staring endlessly at the cracked sky above. He couldn't wrap his head around it. But he could watch the Doctor. He could stay with him and keep them both breathing. Keep Amy alive in his heart.

He could do that.

It was too silent.

The TARDIS sighed under his feet, her hums subdued and mournful ever since -

Then She held her breath and he knew...

He raced through the stretch of corridors, feet skidding across the floor as he entered the control room, the door open and -

"So beautiful," the Doctor was saying, his voice a tired croak of sound and he was crying; silent, weary tears that spoke of too much, even as he said little. "I could reach out and touch them, Rory. I could - "

"Doctor, please get back inside," Rory whispered, voice calmer than he felt, his one lone heart galloping away at the endless black of space beneath the toes of the Doctor's boots, the alien's body leaned out too, too far for his liking.

"I could fall forever," the Doctor mused, sounding almost like his old self for a moment before he turned haunted eyes to his last Companion. "Would you like that? You could help me...you could get -"

"I don't want that," Rory rasped, fear shaking through his veins, his very skin humming with electric horror. "Amy wouldn't - please...Doctor - step back inside -"

"You could go home again," the Doctor gasped, eyes squeezed tight as if looking at Rory caused him pain. "But she can't, can she? I have taken everything...I could fall -"

The Time-Lord blinked in Rory's direction and for a moment, fierce, burning hate lit Rory up from the inside. How dare the Doctor walk away (_AGAIN_) - while Amy, his beautiful wife was -

The Doctor nodded, contentment, sorrowful peace smoothing the lines away from his eyes - so young, so very, very old and he started to tilt -

Rory grabbed him, his movements so quick he didn't even know he was going to make them until they had already happened, the Doctor wrapped firmly in his grip. He expected him to fall limp, to let himself be led away - but was surprised at the fight he had on his hands. The Doctor growled and sobbed in his beautiful, musical language, body twisted so he was always in the open door, trying to push Rory away from him, even as he tried to use him as a means of leverage.

"Please don't," Rory gritted, trying and failing several times before he got a firmer grip in the man, locking him in a hold that the Doctor couldn't break, the both of them weeping now - one in defeat and the other in abject fear and loneliness. "I can't - Amy wouldn't -"

"She's dead," the Doctor hissed, trying to make him angry, trying to goad him into doing what he had attempted to do himself. "She's dead, Rory - and I killed her...I kill everyone, _everything_ - do you not understand that?! If I had been just one step behind...just one -"

It had been a headshot. The Doctor wouldn't have come back from that. Amy certainly hadn't.

Rory slumped in the doorway, holding the Time-Lord so tight he could swear the man's ribs creaked - relieved and terrified when the Doctor clung back, letting Rory rock him as they held each other against the expanse of the void beyond the doorway. They sat there for a very long time, their grief and pain keeping them so, so far apart, even as it held them closer than ever. A lifetime later he led the subdued and (once more) silent Time-Lord back to his bed, curling up with him on top of the covers, arms wrapped around the last thing he could call home.

"I can't lose you, too," Rory murmured into the back of his neck, eyes aching with two days worth of shed tears, his voice scratchy with loss and terror. "We only have each other, can't you see that?"

The Doctor didn't reply.

Rory didn't know if he was even there anymore.

He held him close, mind drifting to the list of names -

_So, so many_

- in his pocket, his heart aching with all that he had lost and all that he could lose, even as he held it right in front of him. The universe was a lot less sure, was a lot colder without his Amy - but it would not be worth living in if the man in his arms succeeded in what he had been trying to do.

He would have to be more vigilant, ease the ache by keeping the Doctor safe. It was what Amy would want. It was what he wanted.

Sleep was a thing of the past.

The night was still long.

But his bed was not as empty.


	2. Chapter 2

**The Unthinkable Series**

**'Razors and the Dying Roses Plead (I Don't Leave You Alone)'**

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**A/N:** _Originally_ written for _**who_contest**'s_ Prompt: **Kiss**, but it got too big for its own britches.

**All Other Warnings and Disclaimers to be found at Part One**

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**~Chapter One~**

Rory got used to his bed being empty.

It took a while, though.

The nights were always long and his dreams were always nightmares filled with flashes of red and maroon; but he slept, even if it wasn't always restful.

Three times…

That was how many times he could count on his fingers they had touched.

It was also how many times he could count on his fingers that his bed hadn't been empty since…

(Since the minute, hour, day, month she had died.)

It was hard to believe that had been three months ago. It was hard to believe that he still hadn't stopped to think about it, to _remember_...but he was too busy keeping his promise.

He kept breathing.

He kept _him _breathing.

He didn't think the Doctor had tried to harm himself since that horrible day he found him dangling out of the open TARDIS door. He wasn't one hundred percent sure about that, but Rory hovered so close almost constantly that the Time Lord would be hard pressed to find time to try. The only time he would have to himself was when Rory slept.

Rory didn't sleep much.

And he never slept for long.

He became obsessed with touching things: the TARDIS corridors, the tea cup he would drink from, the railings in the console room. He needed to find reality. He needed to ground himself and touching things that were there – things that were solid, things that kept him _here _– was the only way he knew how.

The Doctor wouldn't let him touch him.

The alien was a tactile creature. He was always caressing the console, patting Rory on the shoulder, hugging Amy -

Well, he _used _to be.

Rory found himself wondering if this was some new form of self-harm, as the Doctor rarely touched anything unless he had to nowadays. He was always restless, always moving – his unshakable calm blown out like a candle. The Time Lord's need to explore, that endless, curious drive to poke and prod and chatter dulled by what was missing.

Rory had held him that long night three months before, patting and soothing him as they both pretended to sleep; the list of names burning a hole in his pocket even as he tried to reassure the other man the only way he knew how.

He had only touched him twice since.

Not for the lack of trying on his part.

Less than three days after that, he had touched the Time Lord's shoulder, leaning into him while he tried to see where the TARDIS landed (not that the TARDIS landing anywhere meant anything anymore, as they never stepped foot outside of Her doors). The Doctor reacted as if Rory had hit him - shying away with a full body shudder - his face filled with a sadness so vast, no mere Universe could contain it. It was as if he was trying to hold sorrow enough for the two of them and it filled Rory's heart with fresh pain, even as it left him empty.

So who was to say the Doctor hadn't succeeded? That he wasn't carrying that weight, that grief for both of them? It wasn't like Rory could stop and grieve.

He never gave himself time to.

The Doctor tried to give him that time, once.

He offered (two weeks, two days, five hours, three minutes and seventeen seconds after Amy breathed her last), to take him home. Had set the coordinates and everything.

That was the third time Rory had touched him.

That was when he _did _hit him – when he punched the Doctor hard enough to send him straight to the floor.

As the Time Lord struggled to get back to his feet – dazed, bruise blooming bright on his jaw, blood curling from the side of his mouth – Rory knew he likely wouldn't get a chance to touch him again. And in that respect he was right. The Doctor had been back to his bed twice since that night they kept the dark at bay together, though Rory knew if he had reached for him…

He was never offered the chance to go home again.

The Doctor didn't make that same mistake twice.

And so the Doctor held onto their sorrow.

While Rory touched everything he could find.

He would have found it funny if he could hold a thought long enough to see the humor in it, but his mind was constantly rough and jumbled: like someone had taken all the contents inside and shook them vigorously until he couldn't find a single idea that held any meaning. There was only one thought that ever came in clear (besides the shaky memory of red and maroon and sightless eyes staring into the grey sky above). Only one...and it was an odd thought that wouldn't leave him alone. He obsessed over it, turning it over and over in his mind until it became one huge blur – a rhythm inside his head that rose and fell along with the hum of the TARDIS beneath his feet. A litany of images, of snapshots that blurred and sharpened depending on his level of exhaustion and ability to focus.

He could blame it on the lack of physical contact with anything that was alive - well, alive and _breathing_, anyway - but sometimes he knew better. He knew why he held the thought close. It was close to (but not exactly like) the reason he kept the list of names the Doctor had written in his pocket. It was probably similar to the reason the Doctor would repeat those same names under his breath (over and over and over), when he believed Rory couldn't hear him. It was like a memory, but it was also like praying...it was like trying to hold something close, even as it slid away.

The thought-memory wasn't much. It wasn't even about anything _important_, in the vast scheme of things.

And oddly enough, it wasn't (completely) about his wife.

It was about the first time he had kissed the Doctor.

It had been a joke, really. A brief press of lips that had delighted Amy, flustered the Doctor and brought a flicker of a smile to his own lips before they had turned their attention back to her - their reason for being, their sole purpose for existence. Everything they did revolved around her. Everything they had meant to each other was about Amy. She was the sun and they were drawn in her orbit (and thereby, each other's) based on her whims alone.

When the Doctor wasn't there, it was just him and Amy. Their intimacy all encompassing, their eyes only for each other. There was only room for two.

But when the Doctor _had _been there –

There was always room for one more.

His presence hadn't taken away from _Them _- AmyandRory and RoryandAmy - and it had definitely added to the fun. His Amy had a wild side that couldn't be tamed and Rory was more than happy to indulge her. Strangely though, the Doctor being there, being part of it...it was just as intimate as when it was just the two of them. He was there and yet, he was removed – leaving them to be AmyandRory…RoryandAmy –

Except for that _one time_.

That one time when Rory himself couldn't stand how faded he was, how detached he was from Them. It had been a bad day for all of them and Amy had dragged the Time Lord to their bed, trying to find a way to show him how much he was a part of them, how much he meant to her and by extension, Rory. Even as the Doctor had made every excuse not to follow, even as he had tried to withdraw into himself and let the couple celebrate the fact that they were alive together, _as _a couple (not a triple). Amy wasn't going to have it, though. She had pulled him into their room, ignoring his reluctance and he had stood there, lost and unsure of what to do with himself.

So Rory had gotten bold.

It had hurt (somewhere down deep), seeing the Doctor looking for all the world like he had wound up in the wrong place; like he didn't belong with Them. Rory couldn't think of any place the Time Lord belonged more at that time, in that that moment. When he was there, he was a part of who they were and a need to show him that burned fiercely in Rory's heart. He had snagged his fingers against the Doctor's sleeve, guiding him close with the merest brush of his hand. The Doctor had looked puzzled, but moved closer, smile hovering near his lips, though his hands stayed by his sides, reluctant to insert himself in what he considered a moment made for Two (though there was always, _always _room for Three).

Amy had caught on quick, moving to one side to watch Her Boys, fingers brushing the Doctor's shoulder (encouraging, approving), head tilting in a nod when he threw a questioning glance her way. He relaxed then, shoulders easing, smile more than a mere shadow as he glance back at Rory - curiosity in the lines of his mouth and eyes, hands rising once before falling back to his sides, letting Rory show him what to do.

Rory had seen Amy smile from the corner of his eye, her face radiant with joy as he pulled the Doctor close, one hand on the Doctor's shoulder, the other hesitant, light on the Time Lord's jaw as he leaned in for a kiss. The Doctor seemed surprised, but made no move to stop him and Rory had found (at that moment, even now as he drowned in his grief), that he _wanted_ to kiss him. He was curious. He wanted what to see what the Time Lord would do. He wanted to taste, to feel what Amy had felt all that time ago when _she _had first kissed the Doctor.

It was such a brief moment, really.

He had pressed his mouth to the cool flesh of the Doctor's lips, pleased when the other man didn't flinch away. There was a light tingle, like a static electricity (though not as sharp as that sensation), the coolness of the Doctor's mouth pleasant against his own, the taste of him unique - but also not-unpleasant.

He thought of pushing further, but faltered in his sudden bravery; shyness falling back around him like a cloak as he drew back, cheeks reddening as the Doctor looked at him with a species of awe; tip of his tongue coming out to trace where Rory's mouth had been. Then the moment (shatteringly brief, but beautiful in its own way), had been over and they went back to being the Doctor and Rory...with their Amy. The center of their world and the lynchpin of what they meant to each other.

What held them together then. What held them apart now.

When that moment was over, when they moved out of each other's spaces, they drew her back in, her eyes shining with joy and pleasure, Her Boys everything she had ever needed. Everything she had ever wanted.

That hadn't been the last time it had been the three of them as one.

But it had been the first and last time he had ever kissed the Doctor.

Rory had no idea why it was circling his mind now.

Why that memory was so, so _clear _in the muddle mess his mind had become. He couldn't think beyond eating, sleeping, breathing (and keeping them both safe, can't forget safe); his thoughts a useless, mangled mess of one day blurring into another. He didn't even know when that memory had become a part of his internal litany. Maybe it always had been. He wasn't sure – but then he wasn't sure about a lot of things since –

_"Get_ _up...Amelia...don't you do this!"_

_'I'm sorry...I'll take care of him...I promise'_

_/Jack, Adric, Amy, Amy, Amy, _AMELIA_ –/_

_"I could fall...forever...would you like that?"_

"All we have is each other," Rory murmured, the sound of his own voice startling him. All he ever heard nowadays was the hum of the TARDIS and occasionally (only when the Doctor thought he wasn't listening, only when he wasn't aware of Rory's presence), the never-ending list of names falling from the Doctor's lips. A whisper so faint you had to strain to hear it – but it never seemed to stop, something inside the Time Lord broken – leaving only the List behind.

It let Rory know he was still there, that he had succeeded in keeping them both alive. But he felt like he was failing something else. It felt like he was failing _Amy_, but he had no idea how to fix it. All he had were nights when he didn't sleep (and those awful nights when he did); his need to ground himself through the pressure of his fingers against something _anything_; the whispered List of the dead; the hum of the Machine through his feet and two memories that overlapped, technicolor bright as they fought for dominance in his mind. The memory of red, red, red and maroon –

_Sightless eyes, grey sky, airships, and screaming that wasn't from the dead and dying, that wasn't issued from his own throat_–

and the memory of shockingly cool lips against his own...unresisting, letting him lead. Letting him give in or take away as he wished.

His mouth tingled with the memory, a constant buzz like an itch against the flesh there...and it dawned on him how he could maybe fix this. How he could fix them _both _and solidify his promise to his wife. His dead wife who loved them in vastly different ways, but had wanted them to love each other any way they could. Even when she wasn't there to do it for them – to hold them close, cohesive, centered anymore.

Rory missed her so, so _much_.

It left him gasping now…airless in an empty corridor that echoed with nothing but his own pain, his insides too raw with the void she left behind to cry around it, heart crushed (crushing) within his chest. Somewhere within that pain, he felt another emptiness bloom - the missing piece of his soul that was his wife was not the only part that ached with loss. There was something that had been created by her, a piece that had existed _because _of her, that was now gone as well and it ached with a freshness that staggered him.

Even as he now grieved the loss of the woman who had been his life, he was doubly burdened with the sorrow of losing that piece that connected him to the Doctor.

He hadn't realized how much he had come to need that, too. How much he depended on the man that was so a part of her and everything he had fallen in love with about her. The Doctor was part of _Them_ and they had become part of _him_. He knew that now, he knew what he had failed at.

He also knew how he had to fix it.

He couldn't fill in the missing piece of Amy (impossible, unthinkable), but he could honor her. He could show her spirit that he knew now, what she had intended him to do. How he could keep their memory of her alive within themselves.

How they could show her they still loved her (and always would).

He just had to breathe past this moment…

It took a long time.

Rory shook himself steady what felt like hours later, but could have (in real time) been only a few minutes; his sense of time as skewed these past three months as his sense of reality. He held onto the message that had been left by his wife's ghost: the memory of cool lips, the sensation of awed happiness in the _feeling_of that memory guiding him down the corridor, knowing (always, always) where he would find the Time Lord.

All he had to do now was show _him _the memory.

All he had to do was show him what they _could _be to each other, if the Doctor would let him. They could be their own lynchpin, they could forge their own path. All Rory had to do was lead the way (and hope the Doctor would follow).

Rory found him just as he thought he would, wandering like a ghost within his own realm, his faded presence a pain of a different sort. He was between the worlds, a spirit of only half of his own making (the other half long gone in a flash of maroon and red, red, red). The Doctor's voice was a hoarse whisper as he ran (endlessly) through the list of Names, each utterance rubbing him away from this existence; an excruciatingly slow, agonizing death of everything he was/had been/could be.

He hadn't stopped harming himself at all.

He had just found a way to do it without being caught at it, taking the path of torturous, least resistance.

Rory ached for him – a fresh throb that caught him off guard and slowed his advance.

He paused at the bottom of the console stairs, watching as the Doctor drifted from one instrument to another, hands hovering but never touching, lips gray and cracked as he muttered to himself, anxiety and sorrow burned into the pale lines of his face. He flickered from the various panels, to the steps that led to the engines; a never-ending pattern that looped in and around itself as it had for weeks. Rory had just been too foggy to see it.

Rory had thought he had been alone.

The only one to reach out to give comfort.

But now that he could think clearly, he remembered all the times he had come to the kitchen, hunger driving him to eat, only to find a full plate of his favorite foods waiting for him. When he would lay down, body too exhausted to continue, the sheets would always be fresh, covers turned down, pillows fluffed waiting for his weary head. If he fell asleep in his clothes he would wake up with a new set neatly folded near the bed, pajamas covering him instead of the tee-shirt and jeans he had crawled into bed with.

All this along with a dozen other, little things that couldn't be explained by just the TARDIS alone.

While he had been watching, keeping the Doctor alive as best as he could - the Doctor had been doing the same for him; overcoming his new (wrenching) aversion to touch to keep Rory warm, fed, comfortable as best as he could.

Then he would come back here...and he would list his failures as a reminder.

He was just waiting for Rory to get tired of it - of this half-life, of this drifting existence - and leave him.

Then there would be no one to care for.

Then there would be no one to care.

And that part of Them (RoryandAmy, AmyandRory) would die with only his voice left to echo down corridors long abandoned by his presence.

Rory's heart faltered for a moment, the burst of energy that drove him here draining away, his skin prickling with cold.

The Doctor was just waiting, remembering and hanging in by a thread.

Rory could only hope he wasn't too late, even as his heard his name whispered along with dozens of others (the Doctor's fingers hovering, floating over the controls of his Girl), his voice raw and thin with constant use. It was hard to swallow around that, but it was easy to find strength; the sound of his name listed amongst all those that the Time Lord had lost jolting him back into action.

'_I'm here. I'm right here. I'm sorry. We need each other, I see that now. _She_ showed me, She helped me _see_...let me fix this, let me save us._'

He tried to not think as he put himself in the Doctor's path. Thinking wouldn't serve him now. Thinking was what made him hesitate all that time ago in that room with just the three (two of them), him and the Doctor seeing each other, actually _seeing _(Amy's light used to dazzle and distract). Thinking was what left him staggering from one day to the next, his mind muddied and lost within snapshots of nothingness and bright bursts of technicolor.

Thinking was his worst enemy. It would leave him walking away to live a dead life and it would leave a dead Doctor, living on because that was the only thing he knew _how _to do when you stripped away everything that truly mattered.

So Rory put himself in the Doctor's path, a renewed sense of purpose, a renewed sense of self (a new way of _seeing _himself) and the happiness of his dead wife pushing him to save them both. Maybe find something alive within the wake of her death. He planted his feet and waited for the Doctor to see him, hope bleeding through the grayness of his blood when the Doctor's endless dance faltered, tired eyes lighting on his face as his shuffling stride skittered to a halt. He looked at Rory without really seeing him, his gaze dull and faded, lips still churning out hosts of syllables that led to names, but had become a blur of pain that no longer really made sense.

The Time Lord looked confused, narrow fingers drifting up to hover over Rory (not quite touching) as if the Doctor needed to assure himself he was still there. Relief flickered in the other man's eyes when he glanced Rory over; then awareness faded again, that relentless muttering rising and falling in pitch as he went to move around him, his pattern so ingrained, Rory was quite sure it was the only thing that kept him breathing.

"Doctor," Rory rasped, his voice just as thin and exhausted (though for quite the opposite reasons). It was time for _him _to talk now, it was time for him to make himself heard, even if it wasn't just with his voice. The Doctor had voiced enough sorrow for the both of them. It was time for him to listen to the hope Rory had discovered. It was time for him to be shown the secret Amy had tried to whisper to them every day when she was alive. The secret that had eluded him for so long after her death. She had been what had held them together for the longest time.

She had also been what had held them apart.

"Rory..." The Time Lord sighed, fingers rising to hover over Rory's eyes, his mouth, his chest before falling away again. "Amelia Jessica Pond, Rory Arthur Williams -"

"Doctor," Rory pleaded, stepping closer to keep him from running (or shuffling) away.

The Doctor startled again, licking his lips as he eyed Rory with suspicion, bracing for a blow or a kick - his whole body stiff as he waited for anger or some other violent display; taking Rory's clarity, his steadiness as something that boded ill, his entire being on guard.

But he didn't move away.

Rory found his heart breaking all over again – but instead of letting it paralyze him, instead of letting it deter him - he used it as a source of strength. This had gone on long enough. They had punished themselves enough. It was time to find their Amy again. It was time to find their guide to each other and start anew.

He shook his head as he reached for the Time Lord, fingers brushing the tweed of the Doctor's jacket, catching in the material and tugging as he tried to propel him closer.

The Doctor flinched at his touch (though he didn't pull away this time), the list of names stuttering to a stop as he licked his lips nervously, trying to puzzle out what Rory's intent was, even as he obeyed the subtle directive. He let his eyes drop as he moved forward, hands rising for a moment (hovering, hovering) before falling limply back to his sides, eyes fluttering closed as he got within mere inches of Rory. That awful murmur started up again as Rory's fingers slid up his jacket sleeve, gripping his shoulder (the touch everything Rory needed to ground him, to anchor him to _now_). The Doctor was _there_. He was solid - a real living, breathing presence.

They weren't dead. _Part _of them had died. Part of Them (AmyandRoryandtheDoctor) had died three months ago, but there was still part of Them (RoryandtheDoctor, theDoctorandRory) that was alive. They just had to find a way to be alive together.

"Doctor," Rory Arthur Williams whispered. "_Doctor_...remember -"

And he leaned in for that Kiss.

The one that he had started and never finished so long ago and only just yesterday.

He expected the Doctor to yank away. He expected him to protest. He expected him to push him off, or even hit him...but the Doctor always did the unexpected, just when you counted on it most.

Just when you needed it most.

His mouth met lips that tingled with coolness, that tasted unique and new and wonderful in their strangeness.

Rory didn't know what he had expected (maybe the taste of Amy?) but then, maybe he hadn't expected anything at all - just the feel of the Doctor's lips (however fleetingly), against his own. He hadn't really thought beyond that. He hadn't really allowed himself to.

But Rory was surprised (and more than a little relieved) when the Doctor not only allowed the touch, but leaned into it (hesitant, disbelieving), but aware and so, so _alive_. He mirrored his stance from that long ago memory, the fingers of one hand curled into the rough tweed of the Doctor's jacket, palm of the other hand brushing lightly against the Doctor's jaw. Not held there, not restricting...not this time. This time his hand was guiding, inviting the Doctor for more (if he wanted it), reminding him of what Rory had intended all that time ago. What he was never brave enough to ask for.

He let his fingers brush across the hollow of the Doctor's cheek, cupping the corner of his jaw as he moved for more; ready to pull away if that was what the Time Lord wished, but open if the other man wanted to go further...if he _remembered_. The Doctor paused for only a moment, lips lingering on Rory's own for a beat of time before he leaned back in, letting Rory guide them through - allowing Rory to finish what he had started.

It was soft, sweet - a mere brush of their lips as they breathed one another in, as they remembered the One Who Was No Longer. But all too soon (or maybe, not soon enough), they were holding each other up: the Doctor's hands clutching the front of Rory's shirt, as Rory let his fingers tangle in the Time Lord's hair. It was as soft as he had imagined all that time ago, the strands like cool silk against his fingers as he held him close, as he anchored the Doctor with his mouth and the touch of his hands. The Doctor whimpered into the glide of their lips, and though Rory wasn't sure who had yielded first, he found the heat inside the Doctor's mouth was a pleasurable shock, belying the coolness of those lips.

They kissed as if their lives depended on it (and maybe they did). They kissed as if nothing else existed (and Rory was sure that nothing else could). The kisses were firm, slightly rough - but not rushed - as they learned one another; the caress of the Doctor's tongue along his own leaving his nerves humming, his skin tight with tension.

He pressed everything he wanted to say into those kisses. Everything that mattered, everything they could mean (did mean, would mean) into the push-pull of his mouth against the Doctor's. The Time Lord responded in kind – intense, but not frantic - their combined movements languid and relaxed now, no longer the pushing (but not hurried) clash they had started out as.

Soon (too soon), it was over - the sweet hum of their mouths slowing to a stop, though they were reluctant to let go of one another. Rory pulled back first, sliding his mouth along the Doctor's jaw to leave a light kiss there, reassurance and longing (for his Amy, for Their Doctor); leaving his lips to linger for a moment (just a moment). His mouth tingled with the memory (then and now) of the those cool lips, the ache a pleasure that eased some of the darkness in his soul. He wasn't fixed, he wasn't _complete _(he knew he never would be), but he felt lighter.

He felt better.

He felt like he was saving them both...just as he had promised.

The Doctor leaned into him, shoulders shaking with suppressed grief - eyes shining with wonder (and not just a small touch of sorrow).

"Rory," he breathed, fingers of one hand releasing Rory's shirt to flutter over his own lips before, renewing (tightening) his grip – as if Rory would disappear if he fully let go. "Rory...is this-is this goodbye?"

Such relief and horror in his gaze as he asked the inevitable, as he asked for Rory's _permission_-

"No, Doctor," Rory replied, heart still heavy even as it filled with hope, his mouth aching to kiss him again, to say all the things that words couldn't touch. He wanted to show him it was okay to be the Saved and not the Savior. That sometimes, to save someone else, you had to allow yourself to be saved first. All you needed was a little hope, a little mercy and a lot of love. His voice was thick with all these truths as he held him tighter, his words filling in the cracks his physical presence couldn't touch. "No, Doctor, this is hello. This...this is _Alive_."

He allowed himself to be held, let his hands acquaint themselves with the solidness that was the Doctor. And the Doctor allowed himself to be held, to let himself be _real _in the arms of a man he believed he had wronged.

Most nights (still) Rory's bed was empty.

He had gotten used to that, as horrible as that was.

But he discovered his heart was not empty, it never had been. He just had to find the extra room that was already within it.

They were no longer Three (AmyandRoryandtheDoctor): they were Two once more. They weren't the same Two of Before, but it could be just as good. And a lot of times (most of the time) it was.

But when the night breathed heavy and they felt lost even within each other, they could always reach inside themselves for their third. Amy was no longer the lynchpin that held them closely apart. She was no longer the anchor and glue of what they could become: but thoughts of Her, the memory of Her brought comfort and contentment (even if no small amount of pain). Even when She was gone, leaving them as Just Two (RoryandtheDoctor, theDoctorandRory), the hope and love She left behind was always there, even as She was just out of reach.

Occasionally they looked for Her.

Too often they found each other.

All it took was memory and a Kiss.


	3. Chapter 3

**The Unthinkable Series**

**'Answers Within a Kiss'**

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**A/N:** Written for _**who_contest**__**'s**_ Prompt: **Kiss**. Definite mentions of an OT3 that evolved into Slash.  
**A/N2:** Second Place (Runner Up) at Who Contest

**All Other Warnings and Disclaimers to be found at Part One**

* * *

**~First Interlude~**

"Do you remember?" Rory would ask, breathless even as he breathed _him _in; as he lost himself in the smell of stardust and burning asteroids.

As he assured himself (touching, tasting, reaching for him in the Long Dark), that they were still there, that they were still Two; their Third now ever elusive and long gone from them.

The thought of Just Two no longer left him choking on the emptiness.

It no longer left him bitter; it no longer left him lost, muddled and afraid…but sometimes he had to _know_.

"Can you?" He would whisper, he would think, he would pray. "Will you?"

_Remember Her?_

Remember when I saved you?

Remember when you saved me?

Do you Remember?

Will we always Remember?

'Yes.'

That was always the answer.

That was the only answer (even if it was never truly an answer at all).

It was always 'Yes'.

A silent 'Yes' that shook him to his core...the Time Lord whispering it into the corners of his mouth. As he answered him with that equally breathless assurance, his lips so cool against his own, (even as he burned with that inner fire Rory had come to depend on).

Always 'Yes' as his fingers clutched Rory close, (smoothing over his hair, his shoulders, tucking into the fabric of his shirt), anchoring him to everything they had lost, even as the glide of those lips against his reminded him of everything they had gained.

They had been Two (plus One).

Occasionally, they had been Three.

When he kissed the Doctor that first time, he had made himself stop, not knowing how much more they could have been as that _Three_…not just Two (with One always welcome, always at the peripheral).

At least that was what he had thought then.

Now he knew (as Amy had always, always known), they _had _been Three.

Sometimes, (even with her so far away, long gone from them), they still were Three.

She was the spirit behind their need to save one another, their need to hold one another close against the Dark.

Always there, even as she was gone.

Even when it was Just Two.

_Can you remember?_

'Yes' held within the familiar, wrenching glide of the Doctor's lips against his own.

_Will we Remember?_

'Yes' murmured soundless against his jaw before the Time Lord soothed his restless fears with the caress of his tongue; tasting him, worshipping him with the cool press of fingers against the fever of Rory's skin, a mild scrape of teeth over Rory's lower lip – teasing, assuring...

Always 'Yes', as he unraveled them both with the brush of his mouth over Rory's, reweaving, remaking, reshaping what they had been, into what they were now.

As they made 'Just Two' okay again.

"Do you?" He would ask in return, eyes haunted with all they could yet lose. "Can you?"

Rory would always say 'Yes', even as he never truly answered at all.

All their answers found within the depths of a kiss.


	4. Chapter 4

**The Unthinkable Series**

**'I Know the Pieces Fit ('Cause I Watched Them Fall Away)'**

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**A/N:** Written for _**who_contest**__**'s**_ Prompt: **Gravity**. Definite mentions of an OT3 that evolved into Slash. I apologize for the length - seems Rory has spent waaaayyyy too much time with Eleven and has thusly become rather long-winded. Yeesh.

**All Other Warnings and Disclaimers to be found at Part One**

* * *

**~Chapter Two~**

The air reeked of heaviness, like rocks had been placed in the pockets of his lungs: the atmosphere layered and condensed so every breath was a struggle. His heart thudded slowly in his chest as he dragged one foot in front of the other, knees complaining like weights had been tied to the backs of them – counter-balancing a near impossibility.

"We won't…be here long," the Doctor said breathlessly, struggling to maintain his own balance as they clambered over dangerous rocks and outcroppings lining the ravine. "There's just…there's something…I've got to see…then…we'll be going."

Rory nodded, too tired to even ask what it was they were looking for. He was just happy to be out of the TARDIS, breathing air (even if it was thick) that wasn't restricted by four walls, a ceiling and a floor. He concentrated on keeping up, eyes always on the Doctor when they weren't on the ground or the strange juttings of rocks from the canyon below. Paranoia and over-protectiveness had served him well so far, so he was sticking to it.

He sometimes wondered if the Doctor comprehended that things were different now, even beyond the fact that Amy –

So…

He wondered.

And he watched.

So far, it had been eight months since her death, and this was only the second planet they had landed at and actually stepped foot upon. The TARDIS had come to ground on several planets, but between their grief and the Doctor's almost tangible fears, they had never ventured out. The airships that had swept over the last actual planet they had stepped out on (the forsaken rock they had lost Amy on), was unexpected.

In the Doctor's own words, it was impossible.

The Time Lord was understandably shaken after that – reluctant to expose Rory (not himself, he never seemed concerned for himself), to any other unforeseen dangers. He seemed less inclined to trust his own (much less the TARDIS' ) judgment anymore and that left Rory feeling more sad and lost than ever before. That confidence was so much a part of the Doctor, when it slipped away the way it had…

Rory stumbled and the Doctor jerked around so quickly it almost seemed to defy the denseness of the atmosphere. The fear and weariness that had become so much a part of him descended like a cloak, his body tensed for disaster before he could see that Rory was okay.

Rory waved at him in an irritable fashion, more agitated with himself than the instant concern on the Doctor's face. He cursed internally and hurried as best as he could to catch up, knowing the only thing that was going to keep the Time Lord from hawking him was for him to be right beside him where he could be easily seen and worried over.

"Atmosphere is…rather _weighing_," the Time Lord said, each word as much a struggle as walking, it seemed. "I promise we'll…be going soon. You will…head back…before I will, though. Not good for you here. Shouldn't have…shouldn't have brought…"

He shook his head and concentrated on walking, knowing the frown on Rory's face was intended for him. They couldn't be out of each other's sight now – it was crippling, it was _unhealthy_, but for now it was necessary. The Doctor sure as hell knew Rory wouldn't have let him take one step out of the door without him. Just as he knew he could never leave Rory in the TARDIS without worrying and rushing and getting himself hurt just to get back to him if he had actually succeeded in convincing him to stay behind.

Rory willed the phrase 'over my dead body' out of his mind with a shudder of horror, the innocuous phrase so much more sinister now than it ever had been before. It was amazing how such turns of speech held such gravity to them; something you didn't think about until it happened to you. He mulled over speech, slang and other aspects of the language of his native tongue while he slogged along – the mental distraction welcome, but not enough to completely engross him. He still had a Time Lord to watch – one who had displayed a terrifying recklessness and lack of self-preservation more than once the last few months.

Well, more pronounced than before, anyway. He had always been reckless and jumping into a fray without thought for himself. He tried to keep them safe – he was never really reckless with his companions (that Rory could see), but since Amy had…._died_…he was more twitchy than ever about Rory's safety, but so much more careless with his own. Suicidal, really. But that was a word Rory tried to avoid even within his own mind.

It frightened him that word. It made him sad, angry and desperate. When that happened he needed to touch things – more often than not, he'd touch the Doctor (when allowed, which was most of the time) – just to reassure himself that they were both still _here_.

That this wasn't the nightmare it seemed to be so often here of late.

The Doctor smiled wistfully at him, almost like he could hear the dark turn of Rory's thoughts and Rory loved and hated him for that smile all at once. He had no idea of his own importance. Of the _need _Rory had for him. The gravity of what they meant to each other as dense as the planet they now stood on; it went both ways, that need. The Doctor could only see his own though – he could never see the need was mutual.

_The dark – always in the dark. The Time Lord seeming to be unable to touch when there was light…though it wasn't to hide Rory, it was to cover _himself_._

_Slow, needful kisses in the darkness – fingers entwined, bodies tucked close to one another –_

_"I can be…I can be whoever you want," the Doctor would whisper. "I can be whoever you need."_

'I need you_,' was what Rory always wanted to say, but he knew (to his sorrow) the Time Lord would never hear him. He would only hear rejection and Rory could never, would never do that to him._

_He knew what was being offered, he knew what the Doctor was saying. And he was grateful, even as it enraged him. He wanted to accept it, to ease the Doctor's mind, but all that acceptance would do in the end was confirm to the alien that he wasn't wanted, that he wasn't important. That he couldn't be loved for who and what he was._

_That he was a means to an end._

_"Whoever," a soft whisper at his throat, a kiss to his collarbone, buttons being deftly (swiftly) undone as the alien slid to his knees. "Whatever you need, Rory…"_

'You_,' Rory would think, gratitude, sorrow and need replacing the rush of blood in his veins, making him feel heavy; the gravity of the situation brought home every time before pleasure would wipe it all away again. Everything made for Just Two. Everything narrowing to right now, right here – and all the possibilities it brought with it. '_Just you…_'_

He shook off the stray turn of his thoughts, the sorrow they carried with them – the atmosphere heavy enough without his mind adding to it. He bent his mental wanderings to how far they were from the TARDIS and how much further they had to go. He was happy to leave the confining (that was a laugh) walls of the Time Lord's machine – but he was as nervous about venturing beyond those walls as the Doctor himself was. Fear of what happened to Amy happening to the Doctor at the forefront of his worries with each step they took away from the machine he had come to know as Home.

He grinned to himself at the thought: he worried for the Doctor, the Doctor worried himself half to death over him. They were quite the pair.

The half-hearted quirk on the Time Lord's lips became more genuine when Rory smiled at him, though he could still see wariness in the light of the Doctor's eyes. Tension crawled over the alien's shoulders with every struggling step they took and Rory fought back a sigh, suddenly missing the delighted exuberance the Doctor used to display with every new planet or idea they came across. He understood _why _it was missing, but it didn't mean he couldn't mourn it being gone.

He gathered the air to ask how much further they had to go, when the Doctor stumbled to a halt, hand waving heavily in front of him as he gestured for Rory to stop as well. It took a second to comply as his momentum seemed to compel him forward even as his legs tried to obey the commands his brain was sending. He panted slowly, harshly against the drag of the air around them, his lungs struggling to gather oxygen and exhale carbon dioxide. He forced himself to stop concentrating on his body's automatic responses, curiosity making it easier to do so, as he watched the Doctor bend over what looked like yet another scraggly outcropping of rock, sonic out and buzzing as he examined the structure of the completely ordinary chunk of…what looked like granite.

Not that Rory was an expert on granite, really.

He contemplated being bored, though he was pleased with the idea that he _could_ be bored on an actual planet after eight months of confinement and paranoia inside the TARDIS. No, it wasn't their first planet after that span of time, to tell the truth – but the other almost didn't count. They weren't really there long enough for it to matter. Though _something _there seemed to spark the Doctor's interest in exploring again…

Rory almost didn't dare ask in case the Time Lord became self-conscious and they wound up spending another eight months shuffling down endless corridors and avoiding everything of importance except each other. So instead he sat back and watched with fond annoyance and more than a touch of curiosity as the Doctor mumbled to himself and soniced the soil around the boulder, too winded to ask a lot of questions and too alert for trouble to rest comfortably.

A few minutes passed as he watched the Doctor and the surrounding landscape, the ability to sit down and catch his breath (relatively speaking) not easing the discomfort and pressure on his body. The Doctor seemed to drag through his explorations, his own body flagging in the denser gravity. Rory knew that should be of concern. The Doctor supposedly could go through different gravities and even an oxygen-less atmosphere for a short period and not suffer any major consequences from it. But ever since the loss of Amy, the loss of the Doctor's surety and spark –

No wonder his physical body was severely affected. Stress could do a lot of weird things. And no matter what else had happened here within the last few months, the stress had never really seemed to go away. It was always two steps forward one step back. Sometimes, Rory reflected with weary wonder, it seemed that the resolutions they had found together weren't really resolutions after all. It was all very much one-sided.

Not that this was enough to make him give up.

He pulled his eyes away from the surrounding landscape (nothing but gray, gray and more gray with scatterings of green to break up the desolate monotony), to find the Doctor's eyes on him, their depths unreadable, his mouth thin with thought. Then the alien blinked and smiled at him, the gravity seeming to pull it out of shape, taking it from reassuring to haunting in less time than it took for Rory to drag in his next breath.

"You should…head back," the Doctor rasped, shuffling towards him with only one or two glances at the sonic – an indicator that he was far from done. "This planet…the gravity…is a third denser than…Earth's. _Dangerous_. Not…good."

Rory shook his head slowly, heart sinking (and not due to denser gravitational pull) when the Doctor looked distressed at his reluctance, sonic being pocketed as he waved his fingers close to one another, never allowing them to touch. He still had that strange aversion to physical contact (only absent in the darkness of Rory's bedroom), but it was really pronounced when he became upset. Something Rory didn't even think the Time Lord realized.

"Please…" the Doctor pleaded, hands dancing through the air, hovering over Rory's shoulder when he got closer, but never, ever _touching_. "Rory – "

"No," Rory croaked. "Not…without….you."

The Doctor frowned, the look too at home in the corners of his eyes and mouth for Rory's liking – but it was an expression, it was a _reaction _and Rory found he would take what he could get. The Doctor still acted like they were in an alternate reality sometimes (one he was bound to wake up from at any moment), and though that was an idea Rory could relate to, it still fractured something inside when he'd find him wandering aimlessly in the TARDIS, List locked behind his lips just waiting to spill out.

"Dangerous," the Time Lord whispered. "More for you…than me. Please…_Rory_."

Rory thought about the metaphor that was sitting between them at that moment: the gravity of the planet a reflection of the pull they had on one another. The gravity of what the Doctor meant to him, how they were pulled so close together based off of one shift of their personal reality. The tectonic plates of their world rising and falling as they struggled to remake what they were then into what they are now. Gravity beneath their feet, gravity encompassing their relationship; how they had come to need each other so desperately in such a short period of time.

Rory needed the Time Lord to realize his actions, his lack of care when it came to his own survival would have grave consequences on Rory's _own_ survival. He would survive, that much was sure – but he would never be able to _live _again. He was slowly learning how to do that (living), even as they took two steps forward and one step back.

And still he wondered what the Doctor had found in that marketplace in the Andromeda Nebula that had spurred this leap onto a planet that was dangerous to them both. He was pleased about the sudden spark, but more than a little worried as to its cause: more so when he saw the reckless fire burning in the Doctor's features. It was safe enough for Rory, that fire – but if he didn't keep an eye on the Time Lord, it would burn the alien alive from the inside out.

"Fine." Rory said slowly, letting his concern show plainly on his face, though he figured the Doctor would misinterpret it as concern for himself in the end. The Doctor didn't disappoint in that regard, smile softening slightly, even as Rory's heart thudded and scraped in his chest. "But…Doctor –"

"Good. You'll…be safe…nothing here…so…far." The Doctor nodded, motioning in the TARDIS' direction. "Should be…fine…as you…head back."

'_That's not the point_,' Rory thought tiredly. '_That's not the point at all._'

"Be…behind me?" Rory gritted, trying to convey his feelings a little more clearly. The unhappiness at leaving the Time Lord to his own devices in an unknown environment. The need for the Doctor's safety to be assured. The fear that things can change in the blink of an eye (as they had once already) and Rory wouldn't be there to help him, to save him – especially from himself. "Promise."

The Doctor nodded then shrugged, smile flickering on his lips as he glanced behind him to the innocuous boulder that seemed to have peaked his interest, gaze already distant – like Rory was no longer there. As far as Rory knew, maybe he no longer was. He licked his lips and tried again, the grind of his voice over the atmosphere seeming to capture the Doctor's fleeting attention – something that pleased him, even as it made him even more tired.

"_Promise. Doctor._"

The Doctor hesitated, eyes caught on Rory's own, so alive and _aware_for a moment, Rory could feel the heaviness of his insides lighten just a touch.

"I…promise," the Doctor breathed, leaning close to convey the seriousness of that promise. He further cemented it by laying his hand lightly on Rory's shoulder, barely a brush of fingers – but the gesture more than enough to ease the tightness in Rory's chest, knowing the effort that must have taken the Time Lord – what it must have cost him. "Rory…_go_."

Rory gave a short nod and gathered his strength to stand, wobbling slightly as he did so, knees protesting the extra pressure of his own weight, bones grinding with heaviness. He noted that the Doctor put out a steadying hand – and though it never touch him, he felt reassured once more. This planet (as horrible as it was), seemed to be a step forward in more ways than one. The Doctor was curious, he was out here, he was relaxed enough to send Rory back by himself (and Rory knew that cost him something too, sending Rory back without being there to watch him the whole way) and he could touch him without the Dark – even if it was only for a moment.

Though every step Rory took away from their strange little sanctuary ate at him, his resolve wavering with every shaky move forward. He stopped often, not just to catch his breath (like he told himself), but to assure himself the Time Lord was still there; eyes seeking out the dwindling form of the Doctor each and every time, until he could see him no longer.

But on the blessing side, by the time Rory couldn't even catch the slightest glimpse of him (even as a tiny figure staggering tiredly against the washed out background), the deep blue of the TARDIS came into view above him. He dragged his tired limbs to Her doors, leaning for a moment against the solidness of Her frame, eyes almost aching with how bright and _there _She was compared to the rest of Her surroundings.

He tried to not think about the gray that permeated everywhere, as a sudden flash of another gray planet (and what had happened there), trickled into his thoughts. He had no idea why it had never struck him before, the similarities between the two landscapes – but figured it might have been out of a sense of self-preservation and sanity.

A terrible, gnawing urge to turn back, grab the Doctor (as he had eight months before) and drag him to the safety of His Old Girl overcame him, but he fought it off, recognizing it as the baseless fear it was. Rory had to make his own strides forward – and opening Her door and slipping inside the safety of Her console room was a sure beginning.

He leaned against the rough surface at his back and breathed without effort, limbs watery as he tried to acclimate once more to a gravity that his body was more used to.

He stayed there for quite a few minutes, thoughts whirling busily as the pressures of a more regulated gravity layered itself across the stretch of his bones. His heart was _still _pounding out of rhythm five minutes later when he staggered away from the doors, knees protesting the shift of weight all over again as he mounted the three steps to the main hub. He sank down on the nearest jump-seat gratefully, wondering if the Doctor's insistence was based off of the stress on Rory's all too fragile body – or if he had noticed the eerie similarities of the planet they were on now…and the planet they had been on eight months before.

He shook off the idea, knowing full well the Doctor must have noticed (even as vague and wandery as he had become) and Rory didn't know whether he'd kiss him or punch him when he came back through the TARDIS doors. Gratitude for the Time Lord's consideration of Rory's feelings warred with fear as the minutes stretched from fifteen to thirty; Rory's worry thundering through his veins, even as his mind picked over everything outside of the TARDIS doors – on this planet and the last one they had come upon.

They had been forced outside more than anything else.

The TARDIS had sprung a cog so to speak and the Doctor directed him through an emergency landing on Terridien Five (still unable to force himself to touch Her), his voice soothing and unhurried, even when Rory had pulled a stabilizer the wrong way. Her landing was rougher than usual, though whether that was his amateur flying or the misfiring part, Rory couldn't say. It had still taken over an hour for the Doctor to allow either of them to cross the threshold, his anxiety palpable until the TARDIS made an odd groaning noise, the sound driving him to hurry Rory out of Her doors with a haste that was almost comical. Even as his fear was anything but funny.

They found the part almost immediately.

They had taken barely two steps away from the TARDIS (Rory oddly comforted by Her presence at his back), before the Doctor was declaring happily over an object that looked like the handle of a wheelbarrow – digging in his pockets to pull out five reddish disks that seemed to pass for currency in the alien marketplace – not even bothering to haggle in desperation to get back inside His Girl. The stall owner seemed surprised at the amount, but happily took the disks, waving to the object of the Time Lord's desire, even as the Doctor snatched it rudely off of the table, turning back to the TARDIS with a speed that had left Rory's head spinning.

But that wasn't right either – or at least not entirely the truth as he remembered it.

_Something _had caught the Time Lord's attention before he hurried Rory through the TARDIS doors: the hesitation was less than a fraction of a second, but it was still long enough that Rory noticed the radical change of mood almost as soon as the Doctor closed those same doors with a soft click of sound. There was a new tension to his face, a new determination to his stride – his body vibrating with barely suppressed energy.

It should have been a relief. It should have brought a sense of peace.

Although…

When questioned about what he had seen (or heard) that had set him off, the Doctor waved it all away with a casual flick of his fingers, eyes bright with a fresh anxiety, his voice tight yet mild as he guided Rory through the installation of the part. Then they were in the vortex, nothing more said about it.

Two days later they were here.

So much progress made in such a short period of time.

Rory was grateful for whatever had renewed the Doctor's drive to explore, but it didn't stop the niggle of dread that had taken up residence in his gut. It didn't stop him from wondering what caused it – and what new consequences would befall them from it.

There was something wrong here…and as the minutes stretched past the half hour mark, the feeling became less of a feeling and more of a surety. Something had changed. The change was drastic enough to yank the Time Lord out of his months-long, established pattern. He was hiding something – it might not have been intentional, _deliberate _– but it was off-putting enough that it only added to the weight in Rory's gut, his fear that once again horror would descend on their heads and he would be unable to arm himself against it.

He was just pulling himself to his feet, gearing up to wade back outside the TARDIS to find the Doctor and ease his burgeoning anxiety – when the doors burst open with sudden violence – the Time Lord in question collapsing bonelessly across the TARDIS' threshold. He struggled to push himself up (likely to close the doors) but fell back with a sigh, blinking muzzily in Rory's direction when the human rushed to do it for him, moving faster than he would have thought possible even ten minutes ago.

Rory gave the doors a rough shove, barely noticing when they closed as he fell to his knees beside the Doctor, heart pounding wildly as he checked him for any injuries. A quick glance told him that there were no visible signs of external trauma, but he was unsure what the gravity outside of the TARDIS would have done to the Time Lord internally.

He berated himself for failing to learn Gallifreyian physiology, fingers combing frantically through the soft fall of the Doctor's hair as the alien struggled for breath beside him, chest rising and falling too slowly for Rory's comfort. He curled his fingers in the warm silk of the Doctor's hair, the need to touch him overriding even thought – the solid feel of the Time Lord under Rory's hand more reassuring than words would ever be. He hauled the Time Lord half into his lap, indulging in his pressing need for contact as he did a more thorough check of his limbs and respiration, palm pressed flat between the slowing thud of the two hearts in the Doctor's chest, the alien too worn out to protest or flinch away from the slide of Rory's hands.

"No more," Rory rasped, fear making his voice thinner, harsher than he would have liked. "Never again. You were…you were gone too long. You _promised_–"

"Rory," the Doctor cut in, his smile as faded and gray as his lips. "I'm here. I'm sorry – I thought…I'm sorry."

Rory shook his head, swallowing back the sudden urge to weep – relief so sharp and bright in his chest he could practically taste it as it leaked across the stretch of his skin, settling into the sharp edges of his soul. Rory held him tighter, practically crushing him in his frantic need to keep him close, memory of the last time he had held him near these doors (the grip so similar it was frightening), leaving him choking on that need. Gasping around the urge to scream and sob, relief and fear so muddled in his heart he didn't know where one left off and the other began.

To his credit, the Doctor stayed still, letting Rory hold him, even as his own hatred of touch must have been half-killing him. He murmured nonsense into Rory's shoulder, the frantic tattoo of his hearts eventually slowing to a normal rhythm, his own fingers curling hesitantly into the twilled fabric of Rory's over-shirt, as he let the human rocked him on the floor of the TARDIS control room. Eventually Rory got enough control over his emotions to release the Time Lord, though he couldn't resist one final swipe of shaking fingers through the fringe over the Doctor's forehead, pushing it out of the way of his eyes – those same eyes so steady on his own, willing strength to him through their intense focus.

"Sorry," the Time Lord murmured, gaze dropping away as he detangled his limbs from Rory's grip. "I didn't realize how much time had passed and then…"

"The gravity," Rory assented, forgiveness weaving through the soft chide of his tone, his voice shakier than he would have liked.

"The gravity," the Doctor agreed, looking sheepish and lost all at once. "Next time –"

"I'm not letting you out of my sight," Rory blurted, determination and a slight touch of anger hardening his words as they dropped from his lips. "Not again. You _can't_…no more."

The Doctor jerked his head in a slight nod, still refusing to look at him as he shuffled to his feet, pausing only long enough to make sure Rory was behind him as he mounted the steps to the console – mind already on the next destination, the next planet, the next risk. Rory knew even as he fell in step with the Time Lord (close, so close), that he would never be able to explain all that had flashed through his mind as the alien fell through the TARDIS doors. The fear thick enough to stumble his steps, catch his breath in his throat. The grim certainty that it had gone so horribly wrong – and it was his fault. He would never be fast enough, he would never be smart enough…that he would never be _enough_. That his own gravity wasn't enough to keep the Doctor by his side. The pull of what they were to each other, what they meant to one another so pale in the face of the Doctor's own lack of self-preservation as to be practically non-existent.

That whatever he had seen in the marketplace a mere two days ago was enough to spin him out of Rory's orbit and into the path of destruction.

And he didn't even _see _it.

He set the TARDIS in motion, the groan of Her engines telling him the gravity of the planet was just as stressful on the Ship as it had been on Her occupants. He dared a glance at the too-gray stretch of flesh under the Doctor's eyes – those eyes bright with a fever he couldn't begin to understand. A fever the Doctor seemed reluctant to explain.

He drank in the sight of his last anchor to reality and wondered when the same need that pulled them together would finally tear them apart. When the pull of Rory, of everything that Rory meant to him would no longer be sufficient. He wondered and dreaded that day, though it seemed to draw closer than he had ever thought possible and far faster than he was prepared for.

He said a reluctant good night as the floor lightened under his feet – the vortex they were passing through less stressful on Her main engines as She skated on the waves of Time; that same Time funneling them forward into the Unknown.

He hoped the Doctor would follow him, that he would allow him to hold him in the dark – suddenly, achingly aware of how few those times could be now. The sorrow of that idea dogged his heels as he trudged to his bedroom, weary down to the marrow of his bones – the gravity of the planet they had just left still clinging to the movement of muscle and sinew – sense memory (old and new) warring for dominance over his limbs. He laid himself down carefully, tense as he wait for a man that might not come, eyes wide and staring into the depths of the dark, knowing what it would mean if the Doctor didn't show, knowing that the way ahead would be much trickier even if he did.

It was all in question in the end, and the answer consisted of gravity…


	5. Chapter 5

**The Unthinkable Series**

**'I Could Fall'**

* * *

**A/N:**You can think of the Interludes as 'floating time-stamps' if you will. Undefined moments within the fiction that could be almost anywhere. Most of these interludes have no set place and were dreamed up as 'snippets' (little pieces) of fiction that really had nowhere to be placed. I felt they deserved their own little sections though, as they weave into the overall story - just not into the chapters as they are being set. I certainly hope you enjoy them all the same. Think of them as puzzle pieces that are meant to define the whole picture.

**All Other Warnings and Disclaimers to be found at Part One**

* * *

**~Second Interlude~**

It was softly dark, the corridor beyond the cracked doorway humming in sleepy contentment, the air heavy with that feeling that crept behind the early am; everything holding its breath waiting for day.

Of course there was no daytime here. But that was a much better, more apt comparison (more comforting as well), than the one that immediately leapt to Rory's mind: the calm before the storm. The sorrowful delight of being alive before it all came crashing in.

The Doctor had tucked Rory's arm under his own, the rough scratch of tweed just below his bicep familiar and annoying, the cool, light touches of the Doctor's hands just as familiar and far less annoying. Comforting. Safe. Beautiful.

He held Rory's 'free' hand with one of his own, manipulating Rory's fingers into a fist and then open again. His was head relaxed against the pillow, but tilted so he could study Rory's pale fingers in the dark, thumb smoothing over the rough edges of his palm, just under those fingers.

"Thank you," he murmured, voice as soft and warm as the dark around them. "Thank you for not letting me fall."

His statement was so cryptic, so out of the blue Rory startled slightly, his sleepy shiver mistaken for cold or lust by the Time Lord, if it was noticed at all. Rory wondered at what he had meant, wondered if it had something to do with the fact the Doctor was in his bed; fully clothed, but still here. The thought of the Doctor not loving him back brought that ache he never expected (no matter how many times he felt it), but before it could become fully realized (that ache) he knew what he had meant.

_"I could fall...forever...would you like that? You could help me..."_

He shivered again, in horror this time - wondering why on Earth the Doctor would thank him for saving his life. Saving _their _lives. Without him...Rory didn't want to think about his world without him in it. He wondered how he could have ever imagined a world without him. Amy was always there - not as she used to be, but he had learned to live with that. But to lose the Doctor? Too soon, it would have been too soon and he would have never known -

He pulled the Time Lord tighter against him, ignoring the soft sound of protest, burying his face in the nape of the Doctor's neck. He breathed him in and tried to ignore the hushed call of his name, the edge of the Doctor's voice saying this was important, he had to hear him.

The Doctor never let go of his hand, even as he leveraged himself out of Rory's tight grip, scooting around to face him, thumb still tracing the lifeline in Rory's palm. What he could see of the Doctor's face took his breath away - a muted awe and sorrow lighting his eyes as he brought Rory's hand to his mouth, cool lips a tingling pressure against his fingers.

"But maybe...maybe you should have." Serious. He was actually _serious_.

"Doctor, no -" Rory started to protest, before the Doctor smiled assurance at him, cutting him off with another kiss to the bend of his fingers.

"Because if you had, you wouldn't have let me fall so much further." He smiled again, the edges crimped with an apology that Rory didn't want to hear. He thought that they had gotten past this (together), but it seemed he had left the Doctor behind somehow.

"I took something," the Time Lord continued, eyes dropping away from Rory's with a flicker of unknown in their depths, the fall of his lashes a barrier Rory could never see past. "I took something that didn't belong to me that day. Something that has never belonged to me. I'm trying to give it back, but I haven't yet figured out..."

Rory's heart was starting to thud out of rhythm, an edge in the Doctor's voice harkening back to those days of suicidal recklessness. Those days when Rory feared he would wake up and the Doctor would be gone, leaving him to trudge on alone without any light to guide him.

"What?" Rory croaked, starting to feel anger curling alongside the fear, the Doctor's lack of understanding of what he meant to him having always been a barrier, but he hadn't imagined it was this unscalable. "You took nothing that day, you gave me -"

"I took you," the Doctor interrupted quietly, still unable to look him in the eye and dammit he didn't get to do this. Not now - not after _everything_. "And you aren't mine to take."

"But I am mine to give," Rory retorted thinly, mouth dry, dry, dry with fear and it had been so long since he had felt it, but it was truly an old friend, wasn't it? "And you've never - you can't seem to see that this is what I _want_. _You _are what I want and -"

The Doctor shook his head, ghosting his lips along the tops of Rory's fingers and for a moment Rory couldn't breathe; the wonderful touch of those lips and the fear that drowned out everything aside from them too much to take in, his mind overloading with possibilities that were at odds with one another.

"I didn't lie on that day, Rory - I am death, do you understand? I can't...I can't have you. Surely you know that? You-you can't ever be mine. It isn't right, it isn't..." So gentle and he believed this, he _believed_ it and there was nothing Rory could do. He wanted to scream and shake him, he wanted to ask him if that why he would only touch him in the dark. If this was nothing but guilt to him and a way for Rory to exact his due - because it wasn't _like _that, it never had been.

"You never take anything," was all Rory could manage. "You won't allow me to _give _you anything, either. I just...I don't understand. What are you trying to tell me? Do you want me to leave? I could -"

"_No_!" The Doctor's voice was rough, bleeding a thicker darkness than Rory would have thought possible, his eyes still averted as if he was afraid he could melt Rory if he looked at him. "No, I -"

"Tell me what to do," Rory pleaded, clasping both hands around the Doctor's as if to anchor them both to now. "Tell me what you want from me."

The Time Lord chuckled, the sound anything but merry, his eyes so loving and kind and tired when he risked a glance at Rory's face; the quirk of his mouth denoting even less humor than his laugh.

"Don't let me fall."


	6. Chapter 6

_**The Unthinkable Series**_

**'Far Beyond the Bruising (Something Underneath)'**

* * *

**A/N:** I'm highly sorry for the delay over this chapter. Believe it or not, it was partially handwritten three months (and maybe a week!) ago and has been sitting, fully transcribed and (very) close to how you see it now for nearly two and a half months. The reason?: _This chapter is not like the others_. Literally. Not only is it written from Eleven's POV (which is odd enough, I'm sure), but his way of seeing the situation they are currently in is _vastly_ different from Rory's own. Hopefully it will still have the basic feel of the overall fic, but the tone is much, _much_ darker. More bleak if you will. If you have looked over the warnings at the beginning, you will see some of the ones you've likely been scratching your head about come heavily into play here. Horror, Mental Breakdown and Hallucinations to be specific. So be prepared. Eleven's outlook is quite, _quite_ different in comparison. But hopefully, you can see where he is coming from.  
**A/N 2:** Beta'd, fussed over and generally cheerleaded by my Awesome Fic-Wifey, **lonewytch**. Sweetie, without you this Verse would never have been. And without your continued cajoling, smacking, kisses and encouragement, this chapter would never have happened! Thank you, as always, for everything! This fic is a gift not only to her, but to my ever patient and lovely **Noerue**. I know it is WAY LATE for your birthday, lovely lady (and I don't know if it is the _best_ present ever), but hopefully you enjoy all the same for how belated it is. Thank you, sweetie, for the sweet words and massive love you have given for this fiction. I certainly hope you like it, dear! As always, I take full responsibility for any sentence structure fails, spelling cock-ups and any grammatical oh-noes that may be found. I hope everyone who reads enjoys this chapter, even with any faults that may be therein.

* * *

**~Chapter Three~**

The throaty rumble of the Time Rotor felt like cool, liquid silver in his mind. The feeling-sound was so, so faint, but if he laid his fingers (gently, reverently), on the third strut just under the glass of the console floor (a mere two inches from the Artron actuators), She would hum through the press of his fingers, cascading light-sound-color through his neuron pathways. He would be One with Her again and ohh, how missed that; the ability to touch and be touched. He was no longer allowed that comfort, not since –

_Mustn't think of that._

Her inner workings were dusty, sleepy and dim from neglect – so he wired, dusted, tightened and fussed. Stabilizers hooked carefully back into Her actuators, capacitors cleaned, polished and reinserted into the servos. The work was soothing, calming – the frenetic jumping of his mind eased in the carefully detached concentration of his work. The coppery-steel loops of Her flux coils pressed faint grooves into the pads of his fingers, the feel of them warm and heavy-light, the whip-thin cables looped over the fragile flex of his wrists, their ticklish weight familiar and lulling.

He had missed touch, the sensation of it. He had missed _feeling_.

He occasionally had reprieves –

_Forbidden, wrong, necessary (penance and freedom)_

that he should know better than to indulge in. But indulge he did and the price to be paid –

_Don't think on it…_

Right now there was just the liquid hiss of the flux generators, the soft wheeze of Her Time regulators and the never-before-noticed heft of his torque wrench. He reflexively curled his fingers around the wrench's grip, the padding worn, tattered and patched over with leather tape. The frayed, spiky pieces of peeling tape scratched fine lines across his palm, the metal underneath cold (even to his touch) – an ache in his knuckles as he attempted to crush his fingers, the wrench in his trembling hold.

He could _feel_ –

_Don't think…don't think –_

he could feel what he was not-thinking unfold beneath the hollow of his throat, the sharp jut of his breastbone.

He was gray, fading, unmaking –

_Stop it!_

He could taste the acidic sob leaking (leaching) from that tender spot under his sternum, flashes of smoky-red threading through, obscuring his vision –

_Mad_ (with relief) – _I've finally gone the way of the Outsiders. I'm mad, I have to be. Please let this be Madness –_

The tingling heat of thick, liquid life ached across the whispered stretch of his skin, daubed high across his left cheek. The coppery sweetness of it spattered carelessly along his lips –

_Oh great gods – stop-it,stop-it,stop-it!_

He choked on the regulated oxygen atmosphere, the delicate sip of it a toxic curl across his palate. Airship engines thudded soundless and dull behind his ears. Nitrogen and cordite seared the fine hairs in his nose, etching fire down the delicate lining of his throat. His ears sang with screeching silence, chest tightening-tightening-tightening, hearts slamming murky-slow against the numb slats of his ribcage.

_Please, please, please –_

The double-wrapped cords of Her regulator cables bit viciously into the sensitized flesh of his hands and a flare of hysterical relief shot molten lightening down the eggshell fragility of his spine. The sob of horror –

_Stop it, don't **think**!_

for something half-forgotten (dreamed?) shivered along the clenched prison of his jaw, across his teeth – saltwater welling and fading towards the back of his throat, the flesh feeling raw and serrated. He gasped in a breath that shouldn't (didn't) belong to him –

_Betrayer_.

the whimpering ripple of his skin splitting around the patchy hasp of the torque wrench; a further sweet, jolting relief that had him snatching another startled breath.

_Thank-you-please, thank-you-oh-please –_

The torque wrench's head scored an angry line into his cheek, cool metal pressed tight to the ridge of bone. Cables embedding themselves into the flesh of his fingers, wrists and palms, his own life-force pattering in haphazard splashes on the floor beneath his feet: big patterns of crimson pain as the TARDIS hummed in sorrowful protest, Her liquid silver now a maroon shriek and oh Rassilon if he had just been three nanoseconds _slower, _she would still be –

_PLEASE_.

'_You will destroy him, too_.' A sibilant whisper from the shuffling darkness of his mind. '_Corruption, decay – you. Will. _Destroy_. Him._'

_I know, I know – please –_

He gasped for treacherous breath and –

**...**

The throaty rumble of the Time Rotor felt like cool, liquid silver in his mind –

_We've done this._

The feeling-sound so, so faint –

_Please…_

But if he laid his fingers (gently, reverently), on the third strut…

'_You will bring destruction to him – you _have_ brought destruction to him._'

_Deep, slow kisses_ (beautiful, so beautiful) _in the dark – '__I can be anyone you want, I can be what you need –__' pleasure-pain-torturous-beautiful-ooh-__please__…_

'_Traitor. Betrayer. Liar. _THIEF_._'

The torque wrench –

_Where did that come from?_

fell from nerveless fingers, clattering to the floor with a dull thunk of resonance. The cables from Her regulators whispered out of his other hand (palm outstretched) unlooping along his wrists, across his fingers in whickering streams of hissing sound.

_I don't – I can't – why am I? –_

"Please," he croaked, weak-weak-weak, those treacherous fingers splayed, warding off, denying – keeping away an enemy, pushed away from himself, the hum of his own voice shuddering through him –

_Touching…I was touching –_

ancient crumbles of gore lay embedded, caught in the loops and whorls of the ageless flesh of his hand.

"No," the word clogged against the back of his tongue, choking him with his own denial.

'_Thief_,' thudded blackly from behind his eardrums and he closed his eyes, as though to hear it better.

"Thief." The taste of the truth was cloying and syrup-thick, but he didn't say it – he _didn't_.

"Call yourself a _Doctor_."

His eyes pried themselves awake/open/apart and he saw those same loops, whorls (patterns) five feet away, palms outstretched (to ward himself off). The grey scream of his own visage spattered crimson – that fresh purple-red of carnage etched deep into his flesh, soaked into those loops and whorls of his palms, his fingers – steeped wetly into his shirt cuffs, his tweeds (bowtie more purple than blue), the taste of _her _(Amy) thickly copper-sweet and so, so _bright_ –

"Oh, _Rassilon_," he said/thought, the creak of his voice issued from his own throat, the grate of his vocal chords raw from the endless, airless screaming in his mind. "Oh, please, _please_ – _no_-_no_-_no_ –"

The Other/the Doctor/the Other stayed crouched just under the fifth strut, the cramped curl of its body a gruesome mirror of his own.

"_Thief_." It said again in a dusty, hoarse voice. Blood flaked from its lips, those eyes wide and forever haunted – flesh cracked and papery-transparent. The horror of what it was beneath shining blankly from the whisper-thin threads of those cracks, the feverish chill of its eyes.

"Doctor…" It rattled, hands outstretched and so, so sticky-wet with maroon murder. "Doctor-Doctor-_Doctor_ –"

"Please, _no_ –" the Doctor sobbed, airless, blind as he recognized the splayed, pristine gleam of the backs of his own hands (though he could _feel_ it, yes he could) –

_Touching…I was touching –_

Choking on his own cry of horrified agony, mind tilting to that grey abyss within as he absorbed the unsympathetic understanding on the Other's face.

"Keep her together…_heal_ her," it rasped faintly.

_The broken cradle of her skull – fragmented and so, so warm (_hot_) as her Life poured away from the protective cage of his treacherous (_useless_) fingers to be eaten by the greedy dust of the cracked ground…_

"_Amy_…Amelia-Amelia-Amelia," he moaned, feeling something inside –

_Where was not important._

crack-snap and fall away (again and again and again). "Oh, Rassilon, _please_ no – no-no-no, _Amy_ –"

_Doctor_.

"Get up," he implored to the backs of his fingers.

_Traitor. Betrayer. Thief. Liar. _SHAM_._

"No," helpless denial.

_You dare to touch what is _hers_? To touch what doesn't _belong_ to you? Taint his beauty with your corruption?_

"Please," an airless, breathy plea.

_What right do you have…_Doctor_?_

"_Amy_ –" grief-soaked horror.

_You will destroy him. You _are_ destroying him. _Ruination_. Filth, corruption, disease – _shame_._

"_Rory_…" a daring (damning) wish.

"Should have died there…" It soothed viciously, voice a grotesque rape outside the padding of his mind. "_You_."

"Yes." Sorrowful agreement.

"Three nanoseconds." Warbling thrill of disgust in its voice.

"_Yes_…" Tired acknowledgement.

"You touch him. You taste of him. You _want_ –" it chuckled-wheezed-shrieked-laughed.

"_Please_ –" desperate, guilty shame.

"_Thief_…" A sigh – chilled and reeking of contemptuous rot. But this time (this Time), the sounds-words-ideas trickled from his own lips.

He was the Other.

The Other was him.

"_Thief_," he breathed, watching the Other's face crumple-crack in pain and ceaseless misery. "Liar. _Sham_. You will _destroy_ him."

"Save him," the Other implored, gore-streaked countenance shining with a wide-eyed need, desperation in the press of Its lips. "From you…_please_ –"

"_Doctor_…" he breathed, mourning the pale gleam of his own skin – everywhere (always) was red-red-red over death-shrouded grey and the thudding snarl of airships –

Names were important.

_All of them…_

Names were _imperative_.

_What did they mean?_

"Rory Arthur Williams." It whispered in awed reverence.

"Amelia Jessica Pond." The Doctor promised solemnly.

**...**

He shivered semi-awake in a jump-seat, the thud-hum-hiss of the Time Rotor mirroring, reflecting the scream of airships – the echo of their very wrongness in his ears, his hearts, this Time like a steady stab to his soul. He was insane. He knew this now, he was okay with that. The Other would stop him if he moved in the wrong direction. He would kill It and would not fear that blood on his hands.

_So much of it everywhere, smeared into the ridges of his mind, laced liberally across everything light touched –_

If he could rip out his own throat he would.

_For you…_Amy_…Amelia Jessica Pond._

But he paid his penance, even as he suspected he was falling (he had Fallen). He had lived, then he…he stole, he _took_ – and there was no judgment harsh enough for the horror he continued to commit. Living, breathing, his molecules spreading across the universe…taking Her place in His bed. In _Their_ bed – touching, reaching, admiring, coveting what wasn't his, what could never be –

The dark helped. It made it easier to breathe and he couldn't see the maroon insanity he left on everything he touched when it was black – but then he would touch _him (_oh_, _Rory_)_, sweeping ruin over his flesh as he debased the man's beauty with every kiss, every caress, every lick-suck-slide of his lips. Soothing himself as he tried to soothe the human he had crushed (was crushing) with every breath he took.

But he could be anyone, _anything_ in the darkness. He could pretend to cover himself, to hide the creature he had allowed himself to be twisted into (three nanoseconds). He lost himself when it was dark. And that was good, it was good (cleansing) to be on his knees, begging elusive forgiveness with his hands, his mouth. Swallowing the light, the shining purity of Rory – and like the wondrous, benevolent soul he was, Rory would offer shelter, he would offer peace, penance…forgiveness. The Time Lord did not know why he did this, was just wretchedly thankful that he did…that Rory allowed his presence, even though he had to know of the taint, of the rotten corruption crouched between his legs, curled beside him in their (AmyandRory's, RoryandAmy's) bed.

Then like the ungrateful, disgusting being that he was, he would – he –

_Waited until the world spun slow, Rory's breathing the deep, sweet lull that meant sleep. Remembering Rory in his mouth, down his throat – the heat of him under his fingers in the Dark. So beautiful and shining and _clean_ – and he would…he would touch himself, biting down on his fingers until the coppery-sweetness of her blood was overlaid with the bitter darkness of his own. A grounding, horrid reality, even as he lost himself in a pleasure that was false._

_Stroking himself in fevered shame and disgust, want so thick in his veins he could feel it thudding, creeping, tainting his already corrupted soul. The taste, the _feel_ of him (Rory Arthur Williams) so vivid and bright he would weep with sheer need. He wanted to fall into that light, be what he was once – be true and shining with him, with _Them_ – but he was falling-falling-falling…_

_Utter hatred of himself as he'd spill over the gory crimp of his own fingers (you couldn't see it – the blood – until there was light, but it was always, always there) – daring to steal and steal and _take_ –_

_Silently shaking apart in their bed, her husband (Amelia Jessica Pond's Rory Arthur Williams) sleeping the sleep of the angels that he no longer dared to believe in. He was a lie. He was a Thief and a Liar…_

_He had Fallen._

Falling was easy. Insanity was easy – comforting. Both were their own punishment. But he was guilty of taking pleasure in the numbing bliss of both. Just as he was guilty of murder: of who he had been, of his beautiful, sweet little Amelia – of her husband. He tried to tell him once, but Rory didn't hear, he couldn't _see_ it. He tried to tell him before he realized that a being like Rory couldn't conceive of what he had tried to explain. He also realized Rory would never offer the ultimate forgiveness and obliterate him from the stars.

So he would give Rory a gift. He would make it right.

And just days ago he had been given the sign – an omen in the marketplace.

He could see where it had all unraveled – where Time had tilted and ripped. He could fix it (breathing a sigh of relief inside, even through those endless, terrible screams that never, _ever_ stopped). It would take a while, but he could make it right. Meanwhile, he would have to live with this new knowledge (a price he was willing to pay and a much lesser price than he deserved); he knew now why the Universe had done this. It was trying to show him who he was beneath.

He had been running for centuries, but you couldn't outrun yourself. He had thought he was running from his people, then he thought he had been running from their destruction. But if they had all been like him, if they had all been bleeding this rot and terror under their sleek, shining faces…

He had the power. He could fix it. He _would_ fix it. He would give Rory back his Amy. He would give him what was owed until that time and try to control the want that throbbed in his veins and shuffled bleakly through his waking-sleep. It was a side effect, it was _natural_ to want to be near that beauty and wish it was yours.

He would just have to remember (even as that beauty smiled forgiveness and warmth at him) that it was not his. It could _never_ be his. Rory belonged with Amy. Amy belonged with Rory. He had been allowed a taste of their wonder and peace – but no more. He had touched them and Rory paid too dearly for it.

_Rory_…

The name was like the sweetest taste of honey over the tongue. And when he tasted him, when he _touched_ him –

A shuddering sigh bubbled from his lips – cool wetness streaking his cheeks. He ignored it, standing on weary legs, pins and needles shocking the bottoms of his feet. He ignored that too and peered blearily at the calculations on the view-screen, the time-vectors showing the beginnings of a pattern – but it wasn't complete. He needed to touch at least two more infected planets and know their off-set rhythms.

_Soon_.

He just had to be strong. Hold onto his tattered faith. He was tired, but it mattered not. He had to keep it together, keep Rory safe – keep him pleased. He tried to let him go (so long ago now), but Rory refused to leave. When Rory offered to leave (minutes, days, weeks ago?) he found himself suffocating at the thought of him being gone.

He knew then, without Rory, he was nothing (less than nothing) and he had to be _something_ to complete his work. Even if he was just the dog Rory liked to kick. Perversely, Rory refused to even do _that_. Now the Time Lord didn't know what he would do if he was no longer allowed to be near him – if Rory finally saw the horror under his skin, the evil that skittered on spider-legs through the decayed caverns of his mind.

He was not allowed to die –

_Not yet._

Rory would not grant him that. And it was only correct, it was only _right_. He had work to do, he had timelines to fix. And then…then –

_Darkness. Reprieve. Peace._

But there was no shirking until he was done. There was no rest until he laid this gift at Rory's feet – until he gave him what rightfully belonged to him.

The TARDIS reached for the Time Lord, Her sorrow streaking the liquid-silver of Her thought-speech with tendrils of smoky-purple. He shied away from Her, fighting to keep Her at bay. She wished to soothe, to touch and comfort and love –

She too, was a shining benevolence that he no longer deserved (if he ever had). He wished he could give in, give over to Her, let Her cradle him within the beautiful orange-white-gold of Her matrix-systems: tendrils of sweeping light-sound that would pull him along and wrap him in webs of sleep and peaceful dreams.

_So tired._

He hesitated over Her controls, knowing he needed to erase evidence of his work, sweep it away so _he_ wouldn't see it. He knew (in a dim, sleepy way) that Rory would object. That his all-encompassing forgiveness and compassion would cry out against what he was doing. That he would never see the importance of Them. How They made the Universe perfect, beautiful – _glorious_. Rory seemed to think himself so small within the vastness of it all. But he _would_ think that, wouldn't he? They always did…they never had any _idea_.

They _were_ the Universe.

The screaming wrongness in his mind giggled slippery-soft to itself; slithering calmly to rest behind the thud-thud-shriek of those airships that flew forever overhead to erase the light from the universe within. He ignored it, blocked it all out and made himself touch the controls, unable to ignore the streaks of flickering (melting, oozing) purple-red his fingers left behind. He knew Rory couldn't see it, but he unconsciously reacted to it – layering his cleansing light over every surface the Time Lord had dared to taint. Touching, touching, touching and wiping clean his beautiful, beautiful Ship. She would hum with gratitude and pleasure and Rory would smile that benevolent smile that reminded the Time Lord of screaming and –

_Amelia Jessica Pond. Rory Arthur Williams. Adric. Jack Harkness…_

Names were important – _vital_.

Imperative.

He rubbed the names over his tongue and through his lips, drawing more illicit comfort, more undeserved peace from the warp and weave of their significance. They kept him steady. Grounded him. Forced him to face Rory and wear the mask Rory needed him to wear. They allowed him to breathe and doze and pretend to eat. They kept the blood pounding through the break of his hearts, kept the shrieking-screaming-laughter/sobs from completely overtaking his mind. He didn't have much time left within that mind – but he had enough to do his work.

He felt even more dirty (disgusting) working this way, but there was no help for it. He should be used to the acrid taste of his own life by now. He'd had centuries to get used to it, even if his epiphany was only recent. In the end, he was choiceless.

That in itself was a comfort – the feeling that it was all out of his hands, spiraling away from his control. The fragile heft of Time that coursed through his very essence howled at the wrongness he was existing in now, but he quieted the rabid lunge of it, placating it with promises of divine retribution.

Only this time, he was not the Divinity. He never had been – he was just the Hand that was used to strike out truly. He had wronged and was therefore shown the terrible truth: he may have committed the wrong (coveting, touching, daring to believe he could be part of Three, when there was only ever _Two_ – AmyandRory and RoryandAmy), but he was never the one to pay. He was the one to watch, while angels were struck down before him. Forced to taste the coppery-sweetness of their blood, feel the endless warbling absence as he choked on the darkness within.

Forever unable to touch, to be part of the universe he loved so much. He was shown to have loved falsely, dangerously. To have dared too much.

He had forgotten his Place.

He was sobbing, but was unaware of it, even as more wet-cool streaked down the hollows of his cheeks, small sounds of horror threading through the List on his lips. He forced himself to concentrate on that host of Names – the lost, the broken. The angels he had seen (loved) as they had winked from existence, wings folded and twisted beneath the weight of his years. There was one angel left and he cradled his name deep within his hearts – a special place (filled with leftover light and tasting of pure gold) that his soul couldn't touch. He held him there in the quiet and spoke his name to stave off the inevitable. If he was on the List, maybe Fate would bypass him…

_Just a little longer. Just a bit longer._

Rory had to be kept safe, kept alive within the warp and weave…his wings uncrumpled, uncrushed from the reeking ruin of the Time Lord's love.

_Please_.

The work faded from the screen, Gallifreyian script designating Times/Places (where, when, how, maybe, never) as they sailed past them, Time-Winds dragging him to the next clue. She would know. She always knew. She would get him there.

He stretched worn limbs, mind stuttering around the fact that he was tired, that he was worn down to his bones. He wouldn't be able to sleep –

_No rest for the wicked_

but he could feel Rory's loneliness and he couldn't let that pass. He tried to keep himself from temptation, from want – but as he did so, he denied the man he was obligated to. He was only punishing Rory by staying away. He needed to be beside him –

_Even as it was blasphemy_

he needed to be where Rory could reach out for him. And when he did…

_Slow, deep, demanding kisses. Forgetting for just a moment as Rory punished him with his compassion and pain – the sweet taste of his skin, the heated possession of his touch – before bending to worship him with the curl of his fingers, the glide of his mouth. _

He would roll to him, give himself over to Rory's whims and desires, whether it be lying beside him or on his knees for him. He gladly did so (relieved to be needed, of use to the man), let himself be hopelessly lost within Rory's love for him, even as he wept at his selfishness, marveled at his own daring. He loved, _adored_ Rory with every breath he took, even as he shook at his own boldness. He didn't dare to even _contemplate_ Rory's impossible love for him. It was wrong…it was terrible and beautiful, that love. But his was not to ask, just accept and offer what comfort he could, give him what was due. Even as he found guilty, terrible, (_blasphemous_) pleasure in their coming together, the want like fire in his veins, too much sometimes.

_He only did it twice. But it was twice too many._

One day, Rory would want him on his back, on his hands and knees, and on that day he might not be able to stop that black lust-love from spilling over between them, he would be unable to remain silent. Then Rory would _know_. He would know him for the terrible creature he was and maybe…maybe he would destroy him.

The Time Lord shivered in dry-mouthed awe, angry that he looked eagerly forward to that day. He ached with a desperation that rivaled the sweet whisper-tug of his cracked mind. He held hope for that wonderful moment of (the final) retribution, even as he knew Rory was likely too merciful to strike him down. He just had to finish his work…then he would offer himself completely in the dark, to be accepted or rejected on the altar of Rory's whims.

Either way it would finally be over. The Universe would shiver with completeness when he reset those loose strands of Never-Should-Have-Been. He would feel-touch-taste the silver purity of rightness, dance in the glory of a perfect moment.

It would be just Two (AmyandRory and RoryandAmy) – and he would reach contentment. He could rest. It would be a torment, waking to just Two (always outside, the taste of what he could never have, never be just within touching distance), but it would be right. He could live with that longing.

The Universe would be perfect again.

He smiled crookedly through the tired wash of his tears, swiping at them absently, even as he remained consciously unaware of them. They bled constantly through his soul to leak down his flesh and the tickle-sting of them was hardly of consequence anymore. But he couldn't let Rory see the bleed. He had to protect him. Keep him safe. Keep him content, at peace, secure within the light.

He should never know of what lay beneath.

He blinked and he was at Their door. Another blink and he was lying beside him, trying to keep silent, not mar any presence left behind by _her_. He was watching over him – just as _she_ would want him to. He lived for Them, he would die for Them (but that, too, was hardly of consequence) and he would gladly burn forever outside Their light.

He forced himself to relax, to melt into the give of the mattress beneath his weary frame. He smiled a helpless smile when Rory murmured sleepy-huffiness at him. Relief and demand sighed from the tilt of Rory's lips, the human's hand seeking his arm to pull him close, wrap him in warmth and the scent of him (comforting, delicious). He closed his eyes (for a moment, just a moment), breathing deep of the shadows that surrounded them, the lazy drift of Rory's fingers over his chest a reprieve and a torture.

All was as right with this Universe as it could be – folded in the sweet embrace of Rory's sleepy grip, the caress of his mind murmuring contentment and quiet. He had made the right choice, he had decided well by coming here. He would lie here and pretend to sleep, selfishly soaking in whatever Rory may give him, for in a few hours he had more work to do.

In days, weeks (if he was lucky) he would have one final gift to give to the man who called him a lover and a friend. He would present it on the shining pedestal of his own destruction, set the whisper of reweaving with the burst of his own life-force.

_Eye for an Eye, Life for a Life…(three nanoseconds)._

Just a little longer.

_Breathing in the dark, taking air that was not his – _

He was close, though – he could almost taste the Fire that would wipe it all clean again. And that Fire was beautiful in its absolutes. In its absolution.

_Adric, Jack Harkness, Amelia Jessica Pond, Rory Arthur Williams –_

Just a little longer…


End file.
